Henri Potère, Saviour of New France
by Anne-Marie Lavoie
Summary: An AU fic. What if Harry Potter, his friends, and his enemies had lived in late 17th century Quebec? The answer: Lots of adventure, romance, intrigue and canoes. Ships: HHr RL DG
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

This is an AU fic. That is, it is not set in the exact same Potterverse as the HP books. It is what HP might be like if it had happened in late 17th century French Quebec. The characters are the same as in the book, but their names have been slightly changed to fit with the languages used by the French colonists and the Iroquois Indians.

The main ships in this story will be Harry/Hermione, Ron/Luna, and Draco/Ginny. However, they do not all start up together. My job as an author is to get them together, after a lot of interesting adventures.

The majority of this action will take place in what now is Quebec, Ontario, and upper New York State. If you want to see where everything is, look the place names up on a map.

**Chapter One – Une Mission Dangereuse (_A Dangerous Mission_)**

"Mon dieu, Ronald. Keep your head down. Your hair can be seen for miles."

The freckled courier de bois smiled at his best friend. "I thought, Henri, that was what you wanted. You did say we couldn't hold out in Montréal forever, without bringing the Sieur Sans Un Nom down our own heads, so you'd face him out here."

Henri frowned. "Stop calling him that, Ronald. Only cowards call him that, and you are no coward."

Ronald winced, but did not disagree. "All right. I thought the purpose of this mission was lure the Sieur Vol de Mort into a confrontation."

"And so it is, mon ami, but not yet."

Ronald digested that bit of information for a while, before speaking again. "What are we waiting for, Henri?"

"An old friend. From my days among the Iroquois."

"Ahh. I hope your old friend brings food. I am so hungry I could eat a great blue heron, and you know how tough those are."

Henri was privately wearied of his friend's griping, but he had not the heart to tell him so. He knew his friend only spoke so to hide his fear and sorrow. Ronald had left behind in Montréal the girl he loved, Lunette Bienamour. That was hard enough, but not the worst of it. If this mission of theirs failed, Lunette would be in the path of the Iroquois, doomed to death or a life of slavery.

Henri knew all about slavery. As a child of one year old, the rogue Iroquois warrior who called himself the Sieur Vol de Mort had raided his parents' small farm outside Trois Rivieres. His parents Jacques and Lise Potère had died that night, but when the Dark Sieur went to kill Henri, the thatched roof of the cottage, which Sieur Vol de Mort had lit on fire to terrorize the people, fell on him, burning him so badly that it was thought he must have died. Few knew that Vol de Mort somehow had crawled away from the scene and survived.

Henri was rescued from the burning cottage by a friend of his parents, Hagride, the blacksmith of Trois-Rivières. Hagride had wanted to bring Henri up as his own, but scarcely was the boy safe than M. Dumbledore, the Intendant of New France, rejected the idea. Lise Potère had been of the Iroquois, though married to a Frenchman. Her family still lived. Henri must go to them.

This decision caused an uproar in the colony. The Iroquois were savages; how could the child of a pureblooded son of France be given to their care? But M. Dumbledore stayed his course. Henri had discovered later that the Intendant had reasons for this decision, reasons that needed to be kept private. Otherwise, he would have hated M. Dumbledore, for those years with his mother's family were undoubtedly the worst of his life.

The Iroquois were not all bad. Some of them were noble people, better than most of the Québec establishment, for a fact. But Lise's family were not of this sort. They still despised Lise for leaving them, Jacques for taking Lise away, and Henri for reminding them of it all. Henri spent ten years as a virtual slave in their longhouse. His aunt Petuniseh spoke not one kind word to him in all those years, and his cousin Dudliathas bullied him mercilessly. Yet, under their unkind care, he had learnt to be tough, a trait that now stood him well.

"A centime for your thoughts?" Ronald's voice interrupted his reverie.

"I am thinking of the days before I came to the citadel of Québec."

"Good thoughts, or bad?"

"Mostly bad. Still, there were good times. Sometimes, my mother's family left me behind during a hunt. During the hunt, there were only a few people left in the village. The old, the sick, the very young. While they were gone, I dared to play with the other children. Only then. I particularly remember this one girl I played with. She was my special friend. I wonder what happened to her?"

"Died in childbed, likely enough," answered Ronald. "You know how early their girls are married. If she's alive, she probably has four or five children. So stop thinking romantic thoughts about your old sweetheart."

"You're heartless, Ronald."

"It's the only way to live out here in the wilderness. If you cared too much, you would die of grief. What was her name?"

"Hermioniah."

"Odd name. Not a bad one, but odd. When did you last see her?"

"When I was seven, her father the shaman was driven out from our tribe by my uncle."

"Ahh. Well, a word of advice, Henri. Do not mention this to Ginevre. Ever."

"Of course not!" Henri laughed, thinking of Ronald's sister, to whom he was affianced. "Ginevre's eyes would turn as green as mine to hear I ever _thought _of another girl."

"Exactement. She is a trifle unreasonable, isn't she? Though, she'll make you a perfect wife," Ronald added quickly.

"Yes."

Henri was happy with the arrangement that had been made for him with Ginevre. The girl was beautiful, with fiery red hair and brown eyes the colour of beaver pelt. She would be a capable wife and mother, just as her mother before her had been. He could hardly thank the Vésléesenough for taking him into their family as a son and giving him their most prized daughter. Nevertheless, he was glad he wouldn't be marrying till after this mission. He needed time to get used to the idea of being a married man.

"When will you and Lunette marry?" he asked Ronald, to distract him from the topic of Ginevre.

"As soon as she agrees to give up her heretic beliefs," replied Ronald. "I can't marry a Huguenot. It would not be allowed."

"Are you sure she will give up her religion?" asked Henri skeptically.

"Certainement. She loves me, doesn't she?"

"Some people, Ronald, prefer their principles to their lovers. I have never seen Lunette compromise about her beliefs."

"Just watch when I get back."

Henri decided not to press the issue. Ronald could be quite stubborn. Perhaps it'd be best to let him find out for himself.

"Where is your friend?" said Ronald, after a long silence. "It's very uncomfortable lying in the brush here, and I am…"

"Hungry. Yes, I know."

"Your friend could not come. He sent me instead." They both jumped at the voice. Turning around, they stared at the person behind them.

She was an Iroquois woman, about their age, dressed in brightly beaded animal skins and moccasins. Her dark hair was long, thick and tangled, and she had the disheveled look of anyone who has long been in the wild without the comforts of civilized life. But if she was not a beauty, she had about her an almost enchanting air of determination, and the sharpest eyes the two had ever seen.

"How come we didn't hear you creeping up on us?" demanded Ronald, but Henri's mouth had fallen open.

"Hermioniah! Is that you?"

**End Note:**

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Stay tuned for the next, in which Henri will get reacquainted with his old friend, and his mission will be explained.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: _Henri entre les Iroquois_ (Harry among the Iroquois)**

For a second that felt like an eternity, Henri thought he had been mistaken. The woman said nothing. Then…

"Henri! Thank the Great Spirit! It is you!"

Henri knew he was grinning like a madman. He didn't care. Hermioniah didn't seem to either. She flung her buckskin clad arms around him in that impetuous manner he remembered so well from their childhood. "I didn't know it would be you, Henri. Damayaga only told me I'd meet men named Potère and Véslée."

"I am Potère. Henri Potère. And this is my friend Ronald Véslée."

Ronald stuck out his hand. "How do you do, mademoiselle?"

Hermioniah turned to him. "You are welcome to our country, Ronald Véslée." She did not take his hand. They did not shake hands among the Iroquois. Henri would have to tell Ronald that later, since Ronald looked a bit annoyed at what he probably perceived as a snub.

"Merci," said Ronald.

Hermioniah bowed and then went back to Henri. "But Henri, what have you been doing all these years? You must tell me!"

"Well…"

"What I am saying? Not here, of course. You must tell your tale after you are fed and comfortable in my father's house. It is only a short paddle from here. My canoe is just down the bank."

The birchbark canoe lay half out of the water upon the bank. Designs had been painted in red upon the bark, designs Henri remembered well, the symbols of his mother's people.

"Did you paint the canoe?" asked Ronald. "It's beautiful."

Hermoniah laughed. "Painted them _and_ built the canoe."

Ronald stared at her. "All by yourself? I mean, forgive me, but I never thought this was woman's work."

"What is woman's work then?"

"To spin and weave, to mind the children, milk the cows…" his voice trailed off, probably realizing that there were no cows in the wilderness for anyone to milk. "The women of my family are no strangers to hard work, mademoiselle, but they leave boat-building to us men."

"Do they?" said Hermioniah in what Henri recognized as dangerous tones. "How _civilized_ of them." Then her face relaxed. "I will be honest. I am considered exceptional among my own people, as well as yours. Most women do _not_ undertake the things I do."

Henri laughed. "I remember. My aunt would scold your parents for not bringing you up properly."

"What an awful woman she was. My father now blesses the day he was turned away from that village."

"Is he well?"

"He and my mother are still in the summer of their lives," Hermioniah answered to Henri's relief. There were so many hazards in the life the Iroquois lead. A few years earlier, there had been a smallpox epidemic which had killed untold numbers of people. He had worried about her and her family, hearing of it. Now it seemed they had all survived without harm.

"I had thought you might be dead," he explained. "Or married."

The smile left Hermioniah's face. "I _was_ to be married, Henri. To the son of an Algonquin chief. He died of the smallpox a fortnight before we were to be wed. I vowed on his death never to take a husband."

Hermioniah said these words with the impassivity which characterized her people's approach to sorrow. Behind the composed face, Henri could sense the strength of her grief. She had loved this man, then. Curiousity overwhelmed him, but he knew how well her people valued their privacy. He resolved not to ask any further questions.

Ronald, however, babbled his sympathy. Hermioniah must have grown impatient with these condolences, for she at last interrupted him, "And do you have a wife, Ronald Véslée?"

"No," Ronald replied quickly, rather too quickly for Henri's taste. "And you may call me Ronald, you know. I am the last of my family yet unattached. My brothers are all married, save for Charles who is a priest. And my sister Ginevre is engaged to marry Henri here."

Henri had only a second to wonder why Ronald had not mentioned Lunette before he was distracted from that question by Ronald's mention of Ginevre. He blushed guiltily at her name, though there was nothing wrong about mentioning his future wife, was there?

Hermioniah had turned to Henri, her face as expressionless as before. "I wish you happiness, my friend," she said simply.

"Thank you," he replied, not knowing what else to say. There was no reason for her _not_ to congratulate him. Ronald had been right in calling her a childhood sweetheart. He could – with a deal of embarrassment – remember his seven-year-old self trying to kiss her, and being pushed into a puddle for his pains. Yet that incident hardly bound them for life. She honoured the memory of a dead lover, and he had won the hand of the loveliest girl in New France. Friends do not grudge each other love. He forced a smile and began to tell her of Ginevre.

The people of Hermioniah's village had turned out in full force to greet the Frenchmen. As a people, the Iroquois were – to put it gently – not so friendly to the French, who pushed ever further into their territory and aided their traditional enemies in wars against them. However, on a personal level, there were friendships between individual Iroquois and Frenchmen. Sometimes even more than friendship, as Henri's parents had proved. In this case, Damayaga, a highly respected elder and warrior of the village had vouched for the friendliness of Potère and Véslée, and Damayaga's word was law among those who knew him.

No sooner had Henri and Ronald waded to shore from the canoe than the older man embraced them like sons. "You are the very image of your father," he told Henri. It was a greeting that Henri was accustomed to from his father's old acquaintances. Twenty years earlier, Damayaga had guided Jacques Potère down these rivers and lakes into the heart of Iroquois territory, where he had met Henri's mother. As a child, Henri had not known this, or known that the great warrior who visited his village from time to time was watching over him for M. Dumbledore. All this he had only discovered a couple of years ago. He had a thousand questions for Damayaga, but they would have to wait. For the moment, the order of the day appeared to be celebration. The villagers swarmed around him, asking questions about New France and his journey here. They were particularly interested in the colour of Ronald's hair. Those Frenchmen they had seen before had obviously not been redheads.

Inside the longhouse were the preparations for a feast. Henri and Ronald coughed and spluttered a good deal as they made their way down the smoke-filled long inner corridor of the great house. From experience, Henri knew that they would soon get used to the atmosphere, but it was a great shock to the system after weeks spent outside in the fresh air.

"No proper ventilation," whispered Ronald. "And what do you suppose they'll give us to eat?"

They came at last to the small booth where Hermioniah's parents dwelled. They looked in very good health, though Henri ruefully noted that Hermioniah's father was not nearly so tall as memory made him. Both her parents were ecstatic to see him again. They wanted to hear all his life's story immediately, but Damayaga prevailed on them to wait till after the feast.

The feast did not live up to Ronald's standards, but Henri was used to the food of the Iroquois and tucked into the roasted meat and maize with pleasure. His appetite, brought on by days of strenuous journeying on small rations, delighted the women who'd prepared the meal. He was quickly becoming very popular. Ronald, on the other hand, was earning quite a few glares by the way he poked at his food as if it were poisonous.

When everyone had eaten their fill, pipes were taken out and passed around. Henri was no smoker, but took a ceremonial puff without complaint. The pipe was a symbol of peace, and he wanted everyone to be assured of their peaceful intentions.

Then Damayaga stood up and told the whole story of Henri's parents, of his close encounter with death as a baby, and how he had been brought up among the Iroquois. The listeners nodded. Many had already heard the tale, most probably, but Damayaga told it well, and after a brave warrior these people admired no one more than a good storyteller.

At last, it was Henri's turn to speak. He cleared his throat and tried to remember the grand style of their speeches. "The intendant Dumbledore, he who sheltered the people of New France like a father, took me from my mother's family so that I might learn the ways of my father's people," he told the assembly. "I have learnt much in all these years away from the wilderness, but I have not forgotten all that I learnt among the sons of the forest."

Ronald rolled his eyes. Henri pretended not to notice.

"I have an enemy. He is like me, half of your blood, half of the blood of the Frenchmen. Unlike me, he denies his Iroquois blood. He calls himself by a French name, the Sieur Vol de Mort, though is father was Iroquois. He seeks to rule the French colony, and then to destroy the Iroquois. I am here to stop him from doing this. Will you aid me?"

There was no doubt in their answer. They all swore their assistance. For the first time since Dumbledore's death, Henri and Ronald were not alone in their quest. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Henri poured out his thanks.

Snuggled among warm furs that night, the two boys discussed the day's events.

"These people aren't too bad," pronounced Ronald, careful to whisper. "Georges and Wilfred had me half-convinced they would burn us at the stake.

"They are a terror to their enemies, Ronald, not to their friends."

"And that Hermioniah. She's rather pretty, you know. If she were washed up…"

"Don't even think about it, Ronald."

**End Notes: **Damayaga is my own character. He doesn't correspond to anyone in the Potterverse, though I suppose he has some of the role of Arabella Figg, watching over Henri while he's with his mother's family.

Hermione's dead fiancé was a bit like Viktor Krum.

Next chapter stars Ginevre and the ferret… err… Malfoy. Ginevre is not quite in love with Henri as she thinks, or vice versa.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Ginevre et le Dragon (_Ginny and the Dragon_)**

Ginevre Véslée re-adjusted her white cap to show her flaming red hair at best advantage. She didn't expect to meet any handsome young men today, but if she did, she would be ready for them.

The house was in an uproar today. Her mother and her sister-in-law, Fleur, had decided it was cleaning day. They took this task very seriously. While Ginevre was by no means a friend to squalor, she failed to see why this dingy little log house needed that amount of scrubbing.

_Le Bureau_, her father had nicknamed the house. He had been an official of the king for many years, and the house was also full of papers that needed his attention. Today, these had been put away in chests, to keep them out of the way of the mops and dusters.

"Ginevre," said Fleur, interrupting the girl's thoughts. "Could you be a dear and bring the men their luncheon? We'd rather not have them messing up the house."

Ginevre nodded. It was exactly what she wished to do. Her brother Guillaume had married Fleur Delacour less than a month before, and Fleur was already the plague of her existence. Unlike Ginevre and her siblings, who had been born here in New France, Fleur came from the old country. She'd been born and raised in the city of Rouen. On the death of her parents, the nuns there had arranged for Fleur to be sent to the colony, like so many other girls, since there were not enough women in New France. This background made Fleur insufferable. She claimed to be an expert on French fashion and manners, even though she had been a penniless orphan back in Rouen. "That is not how it is done in France," she would always be saying. Ginevre wished very hard that Henri would return soon and deliver her from this horror of a sister-in-law.

Her father and Guillaume were clearing the stumps from what would be a new field in the spring. It was hard work, and they really needed another pair of hands. But the Véslée boys were scattered this autumn. Charles was now Père Charles, a curé in Trois-Rivières. The twins, Wilfred and Georges, had refused to stay on the land, and instead were making their fortunes in Quebec city. Tools, watches, toys. Those two could make them all. Percivale was also in the city, but did not deign to notice his "disgraceful" brothers. Percivale was one of the governor's soldiers, though his time was spent more in flattering the governor than in fighting.

And Ronald was off risking his life at the side of her future husband. She crossed herself rapidly at the thought. God keep them both safe from harm.

Anyway, they needed help in the upper field, and the obvious solution was for her to help out. She would show them that an education at the nunnery in Quebec city had not spoiled her for hard work. She was as strong as an ox.

Thus marshalling her plans, she nearly missed the noise behind the bushes. Nearly, but not quite. She stopped and listened. There it was again. Unmistakably a groan.

An Iroquois waiting to ambush an unsuspecting maiden? No, of course not. The Iroquois were never so unstealthlike. Without any more hesitation, she put down her basket and waded into the brush.

She had not far to go before she came on the originator of the noises. There was a small hollow among the bushes and there lay a man in tattered but fashionable clothes, a wide-brimmed black felt hat drawn over his face.

"Are you all right?" asked Ginevre. There was no answer. The man wasn't dead – she'd heard him groaning – but he now lay entirely still.

She pushed back the bushes further, knelt down beside him, and pulled back the hat.

Grey eyes met hers. A mass of silvery blond hair was revealed.

"Malfoy!" she hissed.

Jean 'le Dragon' de Malfoy was an old acquaintance of Ginevre's. She had hated him practically all her life. His father, Lucien de Malfoy, was old nobility, who had come to the colony some twenty years before as a military officer. His mother, Narcisse de Nigelle, belonged to the oldest family in New France. Jean, their only child, had inherited from these illustrious parents money, power, good looks, and treachery. He had got his nickname 'le Dragon' in school on account of his fiery rhetoric. Malfoy never lost a chance to declare his loathing for 'les sauvages.' He believed that every Indian should be exterminated. Naturally, he had become the sworn enemy of Henri Potère, and of all Henri's friends.

Lucien de Malfoy was now in prison, awaiting execution as a traitor, after an attempt to bring the Sieur Vol de Mort to power. His son was a wanted man, hunted across the colony for his part in the murder of the Intendant, M. Dumbledore.

And here he was, fallen into Ginevre's hands. How unfortunate for him.

"Well, Malfoy," she said, her eyes fixed on the bloodied bandage about his middle. "This is the end for you."

His grey eyes showed no sign of emotion as he replied, "Is it, Véslée? Are you going to finish me off right here, or will you let others get their hands dirty?"

"Do you think I'd miss the opportunity to see you publicly executed?"

"Seems a waste of rope to hang a dying man."

A thought suddenly came into Ginevre's mind. "Where is the Englishman Snape?" she asked.

"He left me here." Malfoy closed his eyes. "Ma chère Ginevre, I hate to disappoint you, but I don't think I'll live out the day."

She opened her mouth to scoff, but then took a closer look at his pinched, pale face, and realized he was speaking the truth.

This was a worrisome development. He had to live to face trial. He had to be made to give evidence about Snape and the other followers of Vol de Mort. The obvious solution would be to run now to the upper field and tell her father and brother of his presence. Yet, she hesitated.

Her family detested Malfoy. If she told them he was here, might they not kill him immediately, so that he might have no chance to escape his richly deserved death. The more she thought of it, the more convincing it seemed to her.

"Well, Véslée, what are you going to do?" asked Malfoy.

"I'm going to save your life, you louse. Not because I like you but because I want to see you in good health to be interrogated and hanged."

A shadow of a smirk crept across his face. "I suppose that's the best I can expect."

**End Notes: **Draco/Ginny is so much fun to write. So much tension in their chemistry. However, next chapter is not about them, but the trio, who will be learning native magic and secrets about Henri's past.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: **So far it might have appeared that this AU doesn't have any magic in it. This is not the case. However, the magic it has is quite limited, and different in nature from the magic in the HP books. It will all be explained in this chapter.

Chapter Four: Les révélations _(Revelations)_

"Now that we are alone, we can speak more freely," said Damayaga.

Ronald and Hermioniah stared at him in surprise, but Henri nodded. "Yes, let us do that."

The four of them were seated on a rocky outcrop which jutted into the river. It was a perfect place to hold a private conversation, their voices muffled by the sound of the rushing water. It was also a perfect place to fish, and Hermioniah, never one to waste an opportunity, was laying out her hooks and lines and explaining their use to Ronald.

Damayaga had not invited Hermioniah along, but she had come anyway, and no one had objected.

"Now is the time to speak of _orenda_," said Damayaga.

Hermioniah's eyes widened. Ronald looked confused. "What's that?" he asked.

"We'd call it sorcery, Ronald," Henri explained. "It's…"

But Ronald cut him off. "Sorcery! But the Church forbids sorcery, Henri! It's fraternizing with the devil!" He crossed himself, as though the very word might bring evil down upon him.

Hermioniah shook her head. "You French. You've never bothered to understand _orenda_. _Orenda_ is good magic. It comes from _Manitou_."

"_Manitou_ is your name for the devil?"

Everyone except Ronald began to laugh. When Henri had recovered sufficiently, he explained. "Ronald, _Manitou_ is their word for God."

"Yes," agreed Damayaga. "God. The Great Spirit. Manitou. The creator gave to each thing he made certain powers. This is _orenda._"

"Are you sure, Henri, this is right?" asked Ronald.

"Yes, Ronald. M. Dumbledore approved of this, and you know well how he would not use evil means to win victory."

"He was a noble man, the Intendant," said Damayaga. "The world is poorer for his loss."

"I don't understand, though," Ronald continued. "If the Iroquois have magic, why do they always lose their wars against us?"

"We do not!" snapped Hermioniah.

"Yes, you do. You may win a few victories, but our mastery of this land continues to grow, no matter how much you try to destroy us!"

"Peace, Ronald," said Damayaga. "You should learn that we do not all wish to destroy the French. The time is coming when we must live together as brothers, or die as enemies. Your mother knew that, Henri."

"Yes," said Henri. "I wish I'd known her. Everyone tells me she was a wonderful woman."

Damayaga nodded. "Half the men of her tribe were in love with her. But she gave her heart to no one, until your father came here. At first, he annoyed her – she thought he was arrogant – but he won her heart eventually."

"Well, he _was_ French," said Ronald. Hermioniah glared at him.

"For a while, I thought she might return the feelings of the Englishman," mused Damayaga. "But I was wrong. Her feelings for him were only pity."

"What Englishman?" said Henri. He had no idea now what Damayaga was talking about, but felt horribly uncomfortable none the less. No sane man wishes to hear much of his parents' love lives.

"The Englishman Snape," replied Damayaga. "He who is now a servant of Vol de Mort."

"He was in love with Henri's mother?" exclaimed Ronald in disbelief.

"Yes."

"_Mon dieu_, that's sickening!" said Ronald.

"I think it's a tragic story," said Hermioniah. "To lose his love to his enemy."

"You don't know Snape, Hermioniah. If you knew Snape, you'd be just as revolted. Wouldn't she, Henri?"

Henri made no reply. He was remembering all his encounters with Snape now, seeing them in a new light. That loathing obsession Snape showed him from their very first meeting must have stemmed from seeing the features of the woman he loved mixed with those of his worst enemy. And all those times when Snape had saved his life… even that last dreadful night when Snape had just killed Dumbledore, but left Henri alone. Had Snape spared his life for his mother's sake?

"That is all a long time ago now," said Damayaga. "We must take thought for today. I will answer your question, Ronald. _Orenda_ is not used to fight. _Orenda_ heals and protects, never hurts and kills. So it is no use to the warrior in battle. But Vol de Mort has twisted _orenda_ for his own evil purposes."

Henri dismissed his speculations and wearily turned his attention back to the conversation. "Yes," he said. "Dumbledore told me. Vol de Mort's powers are not supernatural. He cannot use sorcery to kill us. But he has split his own soul, Ronald, into seven parts. Each part he has hidden away somewhere, and thus _orenda _protects his life. We must find each piece of his soul and destroy it."

"_C'est impossible_!" blurted Ronald.

"It will be very difficult," conceded Hermioniah. "Where does one begin looking for seven soul pieces?"

"Five," said Henri. "Two have already been destroyed. One was in that book Lucien de Malfoy gave your sister, Ronald." He turned to Damayaga. "The book drove Ginevre mad, so that she tried to kill people. When we destroyed the book, she was well again. It seemed a miracle."

"That is one," said Hermioniah. "What of the other one?"

"The night Vol de Mort killed my parents. He had one piece of his soul left in him. He burned to death that night, or rather he should have burnt to death. The soul within him perished. But he had the other hidden ones, so he lived on."

"Do we have any idea where to begin?" asked Ronald. "Or are we just going to wander about the woods at random?"

"I don't know," admitted Henri. "I came here for advice, for Damayaga's help."

"And I will attempt to give it to you," said Damayaga. "I shall meditate on this matter."

"There was one thing," said Henri. "The night Dumbledore died, we were trying to retrieve a locket in which Vol de Mort had placed one of the soul pieces. However, it was already gone. There was a note left behind, addressed to Vol de Mort. The author said he hoped that Vol de Mort would soon be destroyed, and he was going to destroy the locket to help do that. It was signed with these initials: R.A.N."

"R.A.N," repeated Damayaga thoughtfully.

"Does that mean anything to you?"

Damayaga shook his head. "No, it does not bring anything to mind. I shall think on this as well." Rising from his seat, he bowed, and then walked off into the wood, apparently in deep reflection.

"He will find guidance for you," Hermioniah assured them. "He always does."

"Ah," said Ronald. "I can see we're in good hands. Old man's quite as crazy as Dumbledore." With a broad grin, he went back to fishing.

**End Notes**: Next chapter is back to Malfoy and Ginevre. We'll see his infamous charm at work on the pretty red-head.

I'd like to thank my only real reviewer so far – that weird French hating flame for Chapter One doesn't count as a real review - **_alayneni_**. I'm so glad you're enjoying this story, and you may ask all the questions you like. I'll try to answer them as best as possible.

All other readers, I really like reviews. It'd be great if you could leave one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Four: Le commencement d'une seduction (_The start of a seduction)_**

Three days ago, if anyone had told Ginevre she would soon be spooning broth down Malfoy's throat, she would have called them an idiot. Of course, that's exactly what Malfoy was calling her now.

"I can use a spoon myself, you idiot," he protested. "I've got over that fever."

"No you haven't," she replied calmly. "Lie still, and let me take care of you. I know a lot more about these things than you do."

Malfoy scowled, but allowed her to finish feeding him. Then, when he had finished, he utterly astonished her by saying, "You're a good cook, Ginevre. _Merci_."

"You're welcome." She was curious. "How were you surviving till I found you?"

"Not well."

"Why did Snape leave you?"

"Because he is an Englishman, and faithless, as they all are."

There was a rich irony in Malfoy, whose name meant ill faith, lecturing on that point. Ginevre told him so. Malfoy shook his head.

"I've always kept faith, Ginevre. With my family. You may think what you like of my father, but he is my father, and I owe my loyalty to him."

Ginevre frowned. "No, Malfoy. You owe your loyalty first to the king and the king's officials who enforce his laws."

"Fah. You're a Vèslèe. I know full well you'd oppose any royal official who thwarted your ambitions. That's why your brother Percivale's disowned your family. _He_ is a loyalist. You're only loyal when it suits you. You obeyed M. Dumbledore, but you pay no attention to the orders of Governor de Scrimmejeur." Malfoy broke into laughter.

"de Scrimmejeur, Malfoy, commands the military. I am not a soldier."

He stopped laughing suddenly. "I am sorry to hear that. You may need to defend yourself before the end. Can you fire a gun, Ginevre?"

"Of course. One never knows when one a gun may come in handy."

"A true daughter of New France. The women of this region are scandalously hardy and unrefined," he said, smirking.

"Malfoy! I am saving your life! Show a little gratitude for once!"

"I believe you are only delaying my death. But I am grateful, Ginevre. I'll take my last desperate chances wherever I can get them."

"I'm not letting you escape!" Ginevre snarled. "You killed Dumbledore!"

Malfoy's composure crumbled. "I did not!" he retorted.

"You were going to," said Ginevre.

"But I _didn't._"

"You were afraid of blood. Snape had to finish the job for you. Is that why he left you here to die, you worthless…"

"Shut up, Vèslèe. Just shut up!"

It really seemed to upset him. She was amazed. Somehow, Ginevre had imagined him and Snape sitting around a fire chuckling about how they had killed the Intendant. And now, here Malfoy was, his face pale at the mention of Dumbledore's name.

"It's easy for you, Ginevre," Malfoy continued, hissing through clenched teeth. "You've never had to choose between your parents and your country. You have no idea what I've been through."

"You had a chance, Malfoy. Henri told me. Dumbledore offered you and your parents protection if you'd leave _le Sieur sans un nom_."

"I'm not naïve. There is no safety from him. Only those who join with him will survive the war."

"No. You're the one who's naïve. Don't you see that his followers are the first to be destroyed? What about Bartholomé de la Croix? Was he rewarded for his loyal service to Vol de Mort? No. What of Professor Quirelle? What of your _father_? Do you call waiting in prison for execution a fitting reward for the faithful? Is that what you wish to happen to you?"

"I thought you had already decided it would, Ginevre."

Ginevre gasped. He was right, the beast. There was no point in lecturing him about his future actions. He was going to die. No matter if he repented, his young life was over.

"I wish I knew why Dumbledore wanted to save you," she muttered, almost to herself.

"Perhaps the Intendant believed in second chances."

"I don't believe you've changed, Malfoy," said Ginevre bitterly.

"I haven't tried to persuade you that I have. It would be quite useless. You are quite certain that there is no villainy on earth of which I am not capable. May I beg a favour of you, though? Have you heard any news of my mother?"

Ginevre nodded. "They say she is ill, and stays in her own house, not even going to the church on Sundays."

"Ahh." Malfoy's face stiffened, as though he was seeking to hide his feelings. "And have you heard of my betrothed?"

Ginevre snorted. "Have you not heard? It's the talk of the colony!"

"No, I have not heard! Has anything happened to Pensée?"

"Your beautiful and accomplished Marie-Pensée Parqueson eloped to New York with that Italian scoundrel, Blaise Zabini. Apparently, she saw no future with a fugitive traitor."

A long silence followed. "I suppose it is for the best," said Malfoy at last. "I am not in a fit state to marry."

"Did you love her?" demanded Ginevre.

"She was very pleasing. I would have made her an affectionate husband enough." He gave her a sharp look. "On that score, are you still to marry Potère?"

"Of course, Malfoy. As soon as he is back from his latest journey. I've loved him as long as I've known him. We'll live a happy life together." She took pleasure in rubbing in her and Henri's happiness.

"But does he love you?"

"He is very fond of me. I know I'm not his grand passion, but he's attracted to me. And time will only increase his love."

"Or wear it away. Take care, Ginevre. A marriage of convenience might suit Potère. He can keep you pregnant with his heirs and take his real pleasure outside your bed. But such a marriage would be a living hell for you."

"How dare you suggest Henri would…" Ginevre was exasperated with the man before her, in no small part because his words had the ring of truth. Henri didn't love her as she loved him. She accepted that. Or she had till now. "Love is not about pleasure, Malfoy! It's about duty!"

Malfoy laughed. "Don't tell me those blood red lips were made for duty, Ginevre. Or that lithe little body of yours. Potère is a fool not to adore you."

"Don't speak to me that way," said Ginevre. Her heart was racing.

"_Pourquoi,_ Ginevre? I am only stating the facts."

"You are a devil in human form, Malfoy. No gentleman would speak to a maiden of… of these things."

Malfoy laughed again. "You've a great deal to learn, haven't you?"

Ginevre flushed scarlet. "Not from you!"

"Calm yourself. I've no designs on your virtue. And even if I had, I'm the one lying helpless at your mercy, am I not?"

Swift as lightning, Ginevre's hand came down across his face. "I pray you learn respect," she said, withdrawing her hand. A red blotched marked his cheek where she had struck.

Once more, his grey eyes were indecipherable. "As you wish, mademoiselle."

**End Notes: **

Will Ginevre fall prey to Malfoy's charms? Well, this _is_ a D/G fic. Of course, it's also H/Hr, so the next chapter will be back to those two and Ronald, who have some serious work ahead of them finding the pieces of Vol de Mort's soul.

If you didn't catch it, Bartholomé de la Croix is my conversion of Barty Crouch's name, since Crouch came from the word 'cross,' which is 'croix' in French. All other conversions should be fairly obvious.

Getting three reviews for the last chapter made me very happy. I'll answer reviews at the bottom of the chapter like this:

**_Aleyneni_**, you're right that the Iroquois and the French became allies by the 1750s, although they had been bitter enemies before. In real life, they mostly fought each other to a standstill, but my AU will take the liberty of a more peaceful resolution for at least some of them.

**_Rachel A. Prongs_**, thank you. Glad to know you think I'm writing them in character.

**_Meg, _**your lessons sound the opposite of mine. I'm a Canadian, so I basically learnt about the American colonies only as they related to what was going on up here. Later on, on my own time, I learnt more about American history. I had ancestors in both New France and the American colonies. I've always wanted to write a story set in colonial times, but have never done so before.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**: **Hermioniah Tient Une Idée (_Hermione has an idea)_**

Hermioniah and Ronald were bickering again. Since they had come together, they'd spent every morning bickering. It seemed to be the way they responded to stress, relieving their feelings by shouting at each other. Henri wished they would stop. He was beginning to get a head-ache.

"Ronald, apologize for calling Hermioniah an ignorant savage," he said, after he judged things had gone too far.

"She called me an idiot pale-face."

"I am trying to think," said Henri in strained tones. "You're not helping."

"Sorry," the two said in unison.

"Five soul-pieces," continued Henri. "And no clue where they are."

Hermioniah shook her head. "Let's think about this logically. You said yourself that Vol de Mort has put them in significant places. What is significant to him? That's where we need to begin."

Henri nodded. "The locket was significant to him. It belonged to Charlemagne, the great king of the Franks and Vol de Mort's ancestor."

"_Le sieur sans un nom_ is descended from Charlemagne?" broke in Ronald. "_Mon dieu_!"

"On his mother's side," said Henri. "His mother was of an old, though impoverished, family. She ran off with an Iroquois warrior, to the horror of the colony."

"Why?" asked Hermioniah, a sardonic smile on her lips. "Are our men that horrible?"

"It's just not done," answered Ronald. "It's acceptable for a Frenchman to take an Indian wife, but a Frenchwoman degrading herself to the level of their squaws, it's not done."

"I see. Your women exist on a higher level than I do," snapped Hermioniah.

Ronald's face was bright red. "That's not what I meant! I merely meant that this isn't a fit life for any woman. You're too smart to be wasted here either, Hermioniah."

"I like to think that I'm not entirely wasted," she replied dryly. She turned to Henri. "We must begin with that locket then. Are you certain you can't think of a person with the initials _R.A.N_?"

Henri nodded dully. "No one comes to mind, no matter how much I try. R.A.N. was an enemy of Vol de Mort, obviously, but also someone who had once followed him, I think."

"Perhaps Snape's real name is _R.A.N_. and he switched sides back then and wrote that note. Then he switched sides again and helped Vol de Mort," suggested Ronald.

"That's a silly idea," said Hermioniah bluntly. "If Snape switched sides again, he'd have got rid of the note, wouldn't he have?"

"It's better than nothing," said Ronald. "I don't know. Maybe Narcisse de Malfoy put it there. _R.A.N_. would mean 'something something Narcisse."

"That's worst than your last idea, Ronald," commented Henri.

"Who is Narcisse?" asked Hermioniah.

"She's one of Vol de Mort's followers," Henri explained. "Her whole family were part of his conspiracy, except for her sister Andromède and my godfather Cyrille de Nigelle."

"Nigelle?" said Hermioniah. "That begins with an 'N'."

Henri's heart skipped a beat. "You're right…. Cyrille's brother. _Sacré bleu_, I am in the wrong place!"

"What?" asked Ronald.

"_R.A.N. _is Regnier de Nigelle. I bet you anything his middle name began with an 'A'. And the locket… the place to search for it is in the Nigelle house, back in Quebec city." Henri's face was suffused with excitement.

"We came all the way out here for nothing?" said Ronald.

"You met me," said Hermioniah. "And I was the one who solved the riddle for you."

"Hermioniah, I owe you so much," said Henri, leaping to his feet. "How can I ever repay you?"

"You could take me along on your quest," said Hermioniah. "I want to go with you and see these soul-pieces destroyed. Don't worry. My parents will be all right without me. They are honoured people in this village. I have no duty here. No husband or children to tend for. I am free to swear myself as your companion on this journey."

"It'll be dangerous," objected Henri.

"I can use the bow or the knife with skill. I can paddle the wildest rivers. I know the secret paths of the woods. I speak the languages of these lands. I can track a man who's passed through the bush hours before me. I don't like to brag, Henri, but I think I know how to protect myself."

"Do take her," put in Ronald. "She can help protect _us_."

Henri smiled. "Hermioniah, will you do us the honour of accompanying us on our mission to defeat Vol de Mort?"

"Gladly. I shall not leave your side while you still need me, Henri."

Her eyes were shining, and she… _Ginevre_, he reminded himself fiercely. _You're to marry Ginevre. Hermioniah is off limits to you, even if she was attracted to you, which she isn't. She's still in love with her dead warrior. _

"_Merci_, Hermioniah," he said aloud.

A few minutes later, Hermioniah had excused herself to go break the news to her parents. Ronald stared after her wistfully.

"Henri," he said, after a while. "I think I'm in love with that woman."

Henri's throat tightened. He tried to speak, but couldn't find his voice.

"Henri, are you listening? I said that I'm falling in love with Hermioniah."

"That's… that's a bad idea," Henri croaked.

"_Pourquoi_?"

"Because she's sworn never to love again. Besides, what about Lunette?"

"Lunette is a Huguenot. It'd never work out."

"Hermioniah is a pagan, Ronald! That's a good deal further away than a Huguenot."

Ronald shook his head. "She can be baptized, Henri. Just as your mother was. I've been talking to Hermioniah and what she tells me of her people's beliefs, they're not very different than ours, really. I mean, well, they are, but you can see similarities. She was very interested when I told her about the Faith."

"Even if Hermioniah were to become a Christian, she still wouldn't fall in love with you, Ronald," said Henri. "You're being an idiot."

"Henri, you have Ginevre. Allow me a little romance."

_Ginevre._ Right, he must think about Ginevre. Ronald's doomed infatuation with Hermioniah was not his problem. "I'm sorry, Ronald," he said.

"I know you're cranky away from her."

"Away from who? Oh, Ginevre. Yes. I'll be seeing her soon again, though, now we're turning back."

"Perhaps you can marry her as soon as we're home," suggested Ronald. "I know you don't want to leave her a widow, Henri, but would that be worse for her than never to have had you at all? Why don't you seize the day and enjoy whatever time you can together?"

A week ago, Henri would have found this argument persuasive. Now, he felt a duty to agree, but his heart wasn't in it. "I'll ask your father about it," he replied to Ronald. "Now I need to be alone. To think."

He thought mostly of Hermioniah as he walked along the lonely shore of the river. She must never know of his feelings for her. It would only upset her to have disturbed a friend's life so. Ginevre must not know either. She didn't deserve the anguish of knowing her beloved husband loved another. In time he would forget Hermioniah and marriage and children would teach him a passionate love for Ginevre.

**End Notes**:

And meanwhile, Ginevre is not exactly being the faithful fiancée at home. But that's next chapter.

**Alayneni**, I should have explained more there. She's keeping him hidden in a small cave in the woods. I'll elaborate on that next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: La Coeur A Ses Raisons (_The Heart Has Its Reasons_)**

"Do sit down, Ginevre. It's wearying just to watch you," drawled Malfoy.

Ginevre gave him a small smile, but went on tidying the cozy little cave where she was sheltering Malfoy. The last few days had been eye-opening for her. She was discovering the real Jean 'le Dragon' de Malfoy, and he was very different than his public self. For one thing, Malfoy had moral qualms. He was uneasy about his place in Vol de Mort's following. He awkwardly told her about how much the thought of killing scared him.

"I thought it'd be easy," he said. "I thought I'd go up that tower and kill the Intendant without a thought. But when I got there, I found I couldn't. I just couldn't do it."

"That's your conscience speaking, my boy," said Ginevre cheerfully. "Treasure it." She was privately wondering now whether to turn him in to the king's officials after all. If he were turning over a new leaf, no purpose would be served by his death but revenge. And vengeance, as Ginevre now reminded herself, was a sin.

"If you were to leave New France and start a new life," she said carefully, sweeping up the dust on the floor of the cave. "Where would you go?"

"Why are you asking?" said Malfoy, his grey eyes looking amused.

"I am trying to form a proper idea of your character. You vex me considerably, Malfoy. At times, you show a flash of virtue, but you're also arrogant, deceitful, unjust, malicious, and annoying."

"_Mon dieu_, Ginevre. You make me out to be a monster!"

"You also take the Lord's name in vain."

"I'll try not to, if you'd like. Now, do sit down. You're making me dizzy."

Ginevre flopped down where she stood.

He wagged his finger at her. "_Beside_ me, Ginevre. So we may talk."

"You know very well the impropriety of that suggestion," she snapped back.

"I won't to report you to the village priest, if that's what you're thinking. And I see no other witnesses."

Ginevre gave him a small smile. "All right, Monsieur Malfoy. But you had better have something worthwhile to say."

"I do," he said, making room on the bed of leaves and moss for her to sit. "Suppose I decided to mend my ways? Would you then turn me over to the king's officials?"

"It would depend if I could be certain you _had_ mended your ways," she replied slowly.

"Ah, I see. Tell me, Ginevre, what could I do to convince you of my change of heart?"

Ginevre screwed up her brow. Nothing came to mind. And yet, there must be _something_.

"Very well, let me help you out of this dilemma. Would the old Malfoy have done this?" He suddenly pulled her to him, kissing her lips with frightening passion. "Well, Ginevre?"

She stayed stock still in his arms, her heart beating like a tom-tom. Unable to say a word, unable to move.

"In the old days, I would have laughed to think I might come to love a Véslée," he said silkily. "And yet here we are."

"It is a pity you love me," she forced herself to say. "For I love Henri."

"Love me instead," he commanded her. "I'm so much more interesting."

"You are a devil in man's form."

"So much more interesting," he repeated, and kissed her again. This time, she returned the kiss, surprising herself.

"I have wealth in New York," he continued quietly. "I have only to get there, and all will be well. With you at my side, that is. If you're not mine, I do not think I would care to live."

"You're talking nonsense, Malfoy! I have already signed the marriage contract. My parents would never approve you as my husband."

"I don't propose to tell them," he said, his grey eyes strangely bright. "Give me your hand, Ginevre. And all the rest of your delightful body and soul. We will go away to the English colonies and never bother with these wars again."

"How do I know you shall keep your promise?"

"You know in your heart that I am yours. Does your heart lie?"

"I must go away and think on this," she began weakly. "I must…" She faltered, and said nothing more of leaving.

**End Notes**:

And so is Ginevre's virtue conquered. Dreadful behaviour on her part, but what woman could withstand Malfoy? She should watch out. He may not be so honest in his recent change of heart.

Some reviewers in the past have been ticked off that this isn't really accurate historical fiction, with real French names rather than Potterverse variants. Eh, it's meant to be _fun_, not a history lesson. Do you think movies like _Last of the Mohicans_, _Gladiator_, or _Braveheart_ are accurate? Well, they aren't. And neither is this story a realistic treatment of French Canadian history and naming practices.


End file.
